


Ask me what I did with my life (I spent it with you)

by becka



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Dating, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1201939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry wants to be Nick's Valentine's date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask me what I did with my life (I spent it with you)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Duke Dumont. This story would not exist if not for [Lucy's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully) cheerleading and encouragement. <3
> 
> This is a work of fiction scaffolded by actual events. None of it is true except the Radio 1 playlist and Nick's loud trousers.
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr [here](http://realmenwearpuppypants.tumblr.com/).

Nick’s phone rings in the middle of a song, and Nick grabs it and shoves it into his pocket before Finchy can get a hand on it. Matt raises his eyebrows, unimpressed, and Nick waits until he turns to his email again before taking a peek at his phone, sliding it delicately along his hip until he can see the screen. It’s a blocked number, and he’s quite sure Kate’s not phoning him on a Friday morning, so it’s got to be Harry. 

He’d been proper stroppy about the stupid One Direction track this morning, but the worst part is Finchy wasn’t off the mark. His voicemail noise goes, and he gets an earful from Finchy over the last 57 seconds of the London Grammar Live Lounge. Nick keeps a hand on his phone as he babbles about the Brits for a minute, but he’s thwarted in his desire for a sneaky voicemail check by Happy Hardcore FM, and he has to wait until the 8:30 news before he can slip out of the studio.

“Hiii,” says Harry’s voicemail typically. “This is Harry, from, um, London, sort of. London by way of Cheshire. I think I should be Grimmy’s Valentine’s date because I’m quite rich, and I can afford a lot of wine, and I know he likes that. And I, um, I’m definitely rubbish at bowling. And I’ve been told I sing well, although I can’t rap. So. Please choose me, BBC Radio 1. Love ya, bye.”

Nick’s smile is bursting through in spite of the hand he claps over his mouth, and he hates the glass walls in the office because every single arriving Radio 1 employee can see him having a minor breakdown in the hallway. Bloody fucking Harry Styles. Nick texts, _The contest is over, you twit. Missed your chance. And you called the wrong number anyway._

Harry sends back a crying emoji, and Nick hates him, in the part of his soul that isn’t completely charmed. Ian waves as he goes into the studio, but he doesn’t try to chat, and Nick is grateful for that. Before he can think what to say, Harry texts again. _The other mailbox was full. Please. I’m a great date. I tell infamous stories._

Nick concludes that he’s serious. _Do you actually not have plans popstar?_ He slips into the studio and puts his headphones back on for the last few seconds of Clean Bandit, then has to slip them off to avoid bloody Vance Joy getting stuck in his head for a month (again).

_Being alone in my house :(_ , says Harry.

It’s awful because Nick can absolutely see the face he’s making, big eyes and sad mouth. _Shall I come to yours?_

Harry just texts back _8_ , and Nick chooses to assume this is a time rather than a typo. He can’t stop smiling through the whole next link. He can’t stop smiling for the next four hours, if he’s honest. 

He doesn’t make it to Harry’s by eight, though god knows, he tries. As with most such things, traffic and Poppy Delevingne conspire against him, and he turns up at Harry’s closer to nine with loud fashion-y trousers and wilting hair. Harry is barefoot and gorgeous in a nearly transparent t-shirt and (Nick’s pretty sure) actual fucking yoga bottoms. His legs are endlessly long and shapely, and his dick is a visible presence, even soft. As much as Nick tries to treat getting off with Harry like getting off with any of his other friends, it’s different. It’s different because it has to be so, so secret, and it’s different because he thinks about it whenever it’s not happening, which is most of the time.

Harry looks him up and down and frowns. “I’m underdressed.”

Nick shrugs out of his satin jacket and drapes it over Harry’s shoulders. “Never.”

Harry puts the jacket on and grins, unearthly bright. Nick watches the way the jacket stretches across Harry’s broader shoulders. “Have you eaten?”

“Wine and hors d’oeuvres. I snuck out before dinner.”

“I thought you didn’t have plans tonight.” Harry strokes the silky material of the jacket, winding his arms together until he’s holding tight to his own elbows. Making himself small, like he’s nervous. Why on earth should he be nervous?

“Famous people stuff. Not a date.”

“Is this a date?”

“You asked me for a date, didn’t you, popstar? You called me and asked if you could be my Valentine’s date because you have money and wine and a big house and a massive dick.”

“I didn’t say half of that.”

“It’s all true though. You’re a catch, Harry Styles. You caught me.”

“I haven’t though. You’re still, like, running free across the veldt.”

“The veldt of North London. Right. Obviously.” Nick realises he’s blundered into a Conversation of the sort he’s never needed to navigate. “What do you want, Harry?”

Harry’s tense grip is wrinkling the sleeves of Nick’s jacket, but he was going to need to get it cleaned anyway. “Can we have a date?” he asks softly. “A proper date? I know you hate them and you laugh about them, but I’d like to, you know, see how it is.”

“You’re dressed for yoga,” says Nick inanely. “What’s proper about that?”

“I made you dinner. And I can change my clothes. But don’t, like, don’t take the piss, all right?”

The worst part of the wind-up from Caroline had been the feeling, even afterwards, that it had been half true, that there were times when he nearly crossed the line between joking and hurting. He feels that again now, that he’s skated too close and made Harry think Nick doesn’t take him seriously. “I won’t,” he says solemnly. “I wouldn’t.” He holds out his arms, and Harry shuffles forward to fit so nicely into them, his head settling into the curve of Nick’s shoulder as Nick laces his fingers behind Harry’s back. “Should I have brought you flowers or summat?”

Harry shakes his head, kisses Nick on the cheek before pulling away. “You brought me flowered trousers instead. Come through. Dinner’s nearly ready, and I need to change.”

So Nick winds up sat at the massive table in Harry’s massive kitchen, suddenly alone with his thoughts. The first of which is a wash of prickling terror that he’s agreed to a “proper date” with Harry, who’s already the sweetest, hardest to let go friend-with-benefits in Nick’s phone book.

“What happens after our proper date?” Nick asks, when Harry reappears in jeans and a half-buttoned shirt, tits out as per, a hint of nipple beneath the cotton. “You look lovely, by the way.”

“Thanks,” says Harry. “Reckon if we like it, we might go on another one. That’s what people do, isn’t it?” He turns his back to Nick to get a baking pan out of the oven, and the smell of lemon and earthy spices fills the room.

“I wouldn’t know,” says Nick. Harry sets the dish on the table and removes the lid, and Nick doesn’t know what exactly he’s looking at, but it’s amazing, chicken in thick sauce studded with preserved lemons. There’s a bowl of couscous as well.

“Moroccan chicken thingy,” explains Harry. “I got the recipe off the internet, so I don’t know how to pronounce it.”

“It’s beautiful. Almost too pretty to eat.”

“Nah,” says Harry, spooning some couscous onto Nick’s plate. “Shit, I forgot the wine, hang on.”

“This is really, honestly a proper date,” Nick says.

Harry pauses, corkscrew in hand. “Yeah. I said, right? I said I wanted that. I want that.”

Nick doesn’t know what to do with himself, with his hands or his face or his heart, which is beating too hard all of a sudden. “So we’ll have a date? And then another if we like it? And then that’ll be a bit as though we’re dating, won’t it?”

“That assumes we’ll like it, doesn’t it? Do you think we’ll like it?” Harry sets the wine on the table, and Nick grabs for his hand before he can walk away again for glasses.

“Harry, do you want to date me? We can have a laugh because it’s Valentine’s and you’re plying me with wine, but if you’re serious, I told you I won’t take the piss. I meant that.”

Harry shifts in Nick’s grip until his fingers are curled around Nick’s wrist. He sucks at his lower lip. “I want to date you. Properly. If that’s okay.”

It’s probably not okay. Nick’s managed to dodge “dating” for nearly three decades, and Harry is undeniably complicated. But he’s also very, very straightforward. “Why now?” says Nick, and Harry slumps back into his chair, not letting go of Nick’s arm.

“I have a house now. And a break. I don’t have to run off, and I don’t have to sleep at yours unless you want me to. I have space, and, like, I’d like you in it. It doesn’t have to be serious dating. Or exclusive. But I’d like it. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Nick smiles, squeezes Harry’s wrist. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Can we eat now? Before it gets cold.”

They do, and Harry chats about house things like a proper adult, and Nick tells him which bits of fashion week he’s planning to take a peek at, and it’s so much like usual, except that every time Harry smiles it looks a little brighter. They finish the bottle of wine between them, and retire to one of the giant sofas in the lounge for the type of kissing Nick likes best, slow and easy and smiling all the way through, Harry’s body angled over his. Nick ignores the insistent buzzing of his phone in his back pocket until Harry’s starts up too.

Nick sighs. “Look, my bum is starting to tingle from the vibrations and not in a nice way. I said I’d go to this thing at Box, but I can tell David and the ladies Delevingne to fuck off.”

Harry bites his lip again, and Nick’s sorry the kissing had to stop. “I’m supposed to be there too.” He picks up his phone and thumbs into his messages. “Gemma and Sam are already there. I should at least go for a bit.”

Nick should probably get his hand out of the back of Harry’s jeans, but he’s got such a comfortable grip on Harry’s arse that he doesn’t let go. “It’d be asking for trouble if we go together. And I’ve already had a bit of partying today.”

“Yeah,” agrees Harry quietly. “And it wouldn’t be a date anymore. I like it being a date.”

Nick slides his hand up Harry’s back, following the warm furrow of his spine. “You could go for a bit. And we could have more date later.”

“You mean, like, you’d stay here? At my house? You’ve never done that.”

“You’ve never had a house before, poppet. But I should check on Puppy if you’re going out on the town.”

“You could bring her here. I’ve got a spare set of keys.”

“She might chew through everything you’ve ever loved. All those worn-out Chelsea boots are at high risk.”

“She hasn’t eaten you yet. And I keep my closet door closed.”

It’s obvious he’s thought through all the implications of that statement because his mouth goes tight and frowny again and Nick has to kiss it off him. “I know. You’re very careful when you have to be. Do you want me and Puppy to stay the night? I’m getting the train home in the morning.”

“I’d like that a lot. If you want.”

 

Nick has a full-on freakout in the cab back to his house. It was pretty much inevitable because he doesn’t date, he doesn’t know how to date, and he already cares about Harry more than is wise, given the circumstances. He narrates his concerns to Puppy as she sniffs around the back garden, then forces her to cuddle, wet paws and all, for a minute before he starts throwing together an overnight bag. “We’re having an adventure, aren’t we, Puppy? This adventure is called Harry Styles, and it’s possibly the most dangerous adventure of our young lives. We’ll have to prepare for anything.”

Nick refuses to let his warring emotions get the better of him. He goes back to Harry’s and lets himself in with the spare set of keys he feels he’s hardly earned, doesn’t let Puppy off her lead until she’s sniffed all round the front hall without going insane. Harry’s house is dauntingly large, and most of it still has the lonely catalogue feel of new furniture. Nick doesn’t snoop too much, decides he can’t let Puppy on the sofa without the homeowner’s permission, so he texts to see if it’s all right.

_Me casa es puppys casa_ comes the reply nearly immediately. Immediately followed by another message that says, _Home in an hour._ It’s strange but lovely to think about Harry coming home to him, so Nick and Puppy settle on the sofa to wait.

Of course she goes mad barking as soon as Harry tries to open the front door, then circles around him till he nearly trips over her as he stumbles into the house. “Good party?” Nick asks.

“’S’alright,” Harry says, tugging off his boots. He snuggles into Nick’s side on the sofa. “Everyone says hi and you’re a disloyal twat for staying in.”

“Cheers,” says Nick. Puppy throws herself headfirst into Harry’s lap, sniffing at his coat, and he scratches behind her ears. It’s late and quiet, and Nick’s not as young as he used to be, and even Harry looks tired. Nick stifles a yawn into the back of his hand.

“I didn’t say you were staying at mine,” Harry tells him. “David and I shared a cab, but I didn’t say.”

“You don’t have to announce it,” Nick replies, kissing the fluff of hair above Harry’s scarf. “You’ve stayed over with me loads and you didn’t say anything about it.”

“Yeah. Dunno.” Nick tilts his face up for a proper kiss this time, slightly vodka-y. Puppy wanders off again as soon as the patting stops, and Nick pulls away when he hears her scratching in the kitchen. “Puppy, Harry’s just got these floors. Please don’t destroy them yet.”

“S’fine,” says Harry, angling in for another kiss. “My bedroom’s got carpet if you think that’s safer.”

“Reckon I’d have to have a look round, inspect it.” He kisses Harry through his smile, achingly fond.

 

He takes Harry to bed in an enormous master bedroom with a painting that matches the one in Nick’s living room taking up the wall above the bed. “Nice taste,” says Nick, and Harry laughs as he strips out of his jeans. 

The house has been so long a project that Nick nearly doubted it would be ready in their lifetime, and even now, there are parts of it that don’t look finished. But the bedroom is all Harry, with his photos on the dresser, and his ugly hat collection on display in the corner. And the painting, which is beautiful in its own right, but Nick doesn’t ask if that’s why it’s here.

He goes down on creaking knees to suck Harry’s cock, as Harry murmurs and curls his toes in the carpet. Harry’s hands make a mess of his hair, and Nick works over the heavy length of him until Harry is shaky and spent, ready for more kissing. The bed is enormous, and Nick thinks he might get lost in it, sometime when Harry isn’t blanketed on top of him, when his cock isn’t trapped in the tight, warm space between Harry’s thighs. “Can I ride you?” Harry asks, flushed and glistening like a wet dream, his bare skin streaked with sweat. “Would that be good?”

“So good,” Nick tells him, and Harry fishes for a condom and lube in the bedside drawer, lets Nick watch as he fingers himself, long legs spread wide to offer the most devastating view. His dick is starting to perk up again, bobbing as he crawls into Nick’s lap and seats himself on Nick’s cock, swallowing it up in one slow slide. Nick’s glad the headboard’s padded when he smacks his head into it, gasping as the clutching heat of Harry’s arsehole tugs at him.

Harry fucks himself so slow and deep on Nick’s cock, one hand open against Nick’s chest, right against the beating of his heart. Nick lets him lead, folds his fingers over the flexing muscle of Harry’s thigh as Harry finds his pace, settles in for a long ride. Nick holds out for him, even though he’s aching, meeting Harry’s eyes whenever he can, watching him let go. Harry only touches his cock right at the end, a few frantic, spit-slick strokes to get himself off again, and Nick’s coming too hard, too gone to even look, although he feels the splatter of Harry’s spunk against his chest as he’s breathing through the aftershocks.

“Was I a good Valentine’s date?” Harry asks, rubbing Nick down with a wet flannel.

“Were you?” Nick says. “Is the date over then?”

“Am I? Am I a good Valentine’s date?”

Nick kisses him. “Sweetheart, you’re even better than Zane Lowe.”


End file.
